


Surfacing

by Oparu



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hoth, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Sick Character, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leia catches the fever going around the base on Hoth and has to face some of her old demons from the Death Star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surfacing

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to hewouldve and friskynotebook for all their help. I wanted to touch on how Leia had most likely never talked about the Death Star and her torture, and she might need her defenses down to even think about braving it.

If it was just the headache, she could have coped. Stress headaches were common enough that she could have sworn she didn’t know what her head felt like without one throbbing behind her eyes, or next to her temple. The air was painfully dry on Hoth, even though they were surrounded by ice. She’d seen so many troops with bloody noses that she’d asked the medics about it. They suggested everyone, including her, drink more water. 

Which led to more trips to the frigid refresher, more undressing, more simply being cold like she was today. She had on her thermals, from the thin warm under layers, to the middle and the damn white snow suit, and she was still cold. She’d been cold since the damn incident with the speeder and their four click walk through the snow, and the wait and then Han--

He’d been nice. She’d managed to get herself so cold that she passed out- in front of a whole loading bay full of people- which she still hadn’t gotten over. She’d passed out. Fainted. She’d done the right thing and used herself as an example why all of them needed to be careful, but thinking of it made her stomach churn in embarrassment. 

She couldn’t be mad at him. He’d done the right thing (that no one else had thought of to do) and she’d kept all her toes, and Han’s improvements to their survival classes had been invaluable. The Empire had taught him well, and in detail. As much as he hated talking about the Imperial Academy, he must have been well ranked, even scored well, because he knew how to survive. 

Good reviews trickled up to the higher ranks. He was thorough, and had high standards, but he wasn’t harsh or uncaring. Han Solo, for reasons unknown to her, was a good teacher. She wasn’t sure what feelings she had, because he had stripped her down to her underthings and held her against his chest, which she wasn't thinking about, wasn’t allowed to think about, most certainly wasn’t having any kind of dreams about. 

Though her dreams last night had been chaotic, too colorful, somehow, and she woke up that morning tangled in her blankets, sweating. How she’d managed that when the freezing control room was even colder than usual now made no sense. Rubbing her head, she sighed and forced herself to concentrate on the minute displays of available fuel, reports from their patrols of the sector. 

Lieutenant Ulaai had been replaced with someone she didn’t recognize right away, and she too had a cough. Seemed like everyone did. 

General Rieekan touches her shoulder, drawing her thought away from the fuel reserves and the shield array. “Your watch is over, your highness, go to bed before your cough gets as bad as Ulaai’s.”

Why is it so damn cold? The ice planet should stay consistently unpleasant, not grow more so just because her head hurts. She starts to protest but her chest tightens, spasms, and maybe it is the same cough.

It’s not. Ulaai and the others have been on patrols, they work longer shifts. They’re all pushing themselves.

“Medical thinks we might have virus going around,” he explains. “Get some sleep. How we’re going to feed the taun tauns will still be a problem tomorrow.”

She smiles back, and leaving control is a relief, not that she’ll admit it. She keeps her head up, her strides even, because they need morale. They’re risking their lives to the cold and the Empire both every morning and she can’t--

Her next coughing fit brings tears to her eyes that freeze in her eyelashes because this kriffing planet is so cold. 

“You all right?” It’s him. Blue coat, white scarf, and a far too sympathetic smile. 

“It’s the lack of humidity.”

“There’s water,” he says patting the wall. “Lots of it.” 

She’d argue. She would, but she’s so cold and her head hurts and her chest’s sore. Part of her mind remembers that the last time she was warm, he was in the bunk next to her. 

“Did you eat?”

Leia nods. All of control had dinner. 

“Great, then you just need a nightcap.” He offers his arm and it’s nice. He’s nice. He’s been nice since she nearly froze to death and she likes it. 

Hates it. 

Something. Her headache insists that she hasn’t been paying it enough attention and takes the moment to increase in intensity. Are there painkillers in her quarters? Did she grab a bottle? 

“I make a good hot toddy, and you sound like you could use one.” 

Her chest betrays her and “I’m fine” is swallowed in another coughing fit. Of course it’s in front of him and he moves closer, puts a hand on her shoulder. When she can’t stop coughing and it’s a struggle to take air in because her lungs only want the dry, awful, frozen air out of them, he stands there and watches. His hazel eyes are far too soft. She won’t admit they’re caring. 

“It’s all right,’ he says. 

He’s closer. 

Too close, because she can smell him and that familiar mechanical grease and Corellian soap. It’s nice and she’s too exhausted, too miserable, to pretend she doesn’t want someone else to put something warm in her hands and make her drink it. 

Even him. 

* * *

In the lounge on the _Falcon_ , he sits across from her, talking. Like he’s a normal person who does that. Who is socially literate. “Half my class didn’t turn up today,” Han continues talking enough, though listening to him just grows harder. It’s warmer on the Falcon than in her quarters, and he has his jacket off and she could probably take off hers, but the thought of removing anything is so unpleasant that she shivers. 

Or maybe she’s cold. She shouldn’t be cold. He seems warm enough. 

“Whatever bug Yellow Squadron picked up on their last supply run is running through the base like a Kashyyyk winter flood,” he says, mixing steaming water with something across the table from her and she really doesn’t care what it is. She’d drink the swill they make in the landing bay if it numbed her chest, or quieted her headache. 

“The water mixes with mud and flows half-frozen over everything. It’s the most unpleasant thing I’d been through, until that garbage compactor.” He passes her a hot mug of something that smells vaguely of citrus and strongly of alcohol. “But you are creative.” 

She can’t even think of anything to retort with. Leia can’t find words. She takes a sip, and her tongue’s pleasantly numbed by the alcohol, but it’s not enough to shake her headache. 

“I hear it starts with a headache, a real nasty one that’s right up above your eyes, sinuses-like, and then fever, chills, weird dreams because you always get the most bizarre things from your brain when you’re sick, and then it settles in your chest and you start coughing, not like you, princess, not like your entirely healthy cough that means nothing, but something nasty and wet--” he pauses, and his smile almost seems sad. 

Then Han leans forward and he touches her hand before she can pull back. “You’re running a fever.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he agrees. He doesn’t call her princess, which seems to be reserved for making fun of her. She’d never let anyone else say it, but there’s something soft in his voice when he says it to her. “Suppose you never caught one of these kind of spaceport bugs.” 

“We had bugs on Alderaan,” she insists, but this line of argument will only lead to her telling him about being sick, and how her mother-- She forces that thought down with a gulp of hot toddy. 

“I’m sure you did,” he says. He slides around the table, moving closer. He’s almost tentative when he puts his arm around her shoulder, but he’s warm. She can’t remember being warm. Maybe on Alderaan she was, once. 

She leans her head on his shoulder, only because her neck’s sore and holding up her head is so much harder because it’s heavier when it hurts. 

“You were at a disadvantage,” he says, rubbing her shoulder. “You were already recovering from your unlucky survey mission when Blue Squadron came back. Everyone knows--”

“That shouldn’t have happened. They shouldn’t have seen you carry me,” she retorts, but she can’t put any weight into it. She doesn’t even want to argue. It’s better when he’s talking and she’s not because listening doesn’t hurt as much. Leia rests her head on her hand, just for a moment. Pressing into the center of her forehead almost helps, but she can’t push her fingers into her skull hard enough to make a difference. 

“You got too cold on an ice planet, there’s no shame in that.” Han says it as if it’s so easy. General Rieekan hadn’t gotten hypothermia, or been carried across the landing bay. “And now we have safety procedures for cold exposure. I gave two briefings about them last week. Your Rebellion is safer because you got too cold, princess. Live with it.” 

The hand on her shoulder moves towards the back of her neck. Somehow his hands are warm, even on this hunk of ice. She starts to move away, she should pull away, but he touches the sore spots at the base of her skull and that-- 

Leia sighs.

“Thought that might help.” His fingers continue to move along her neck, taking the edge off of the most excruciating part. Han raises a hand in front of her face, moving towards her forehead. “May I?” 

“What?”

“It’ll make your head hurt less,” he insists. She doesn’t pull away, because she can’t. She should, but anything that will make it hurt less is worthwhile. Even from him. 

Leia nods, then immediately regrets the motion. Her head pounds enough that she’s almost sick to her stomach, or maybe that’s the liquor. Han’s fingertips rest on her forehead, and he finds some kind of counter pressure with the back of her neck and for a moment, it almost doesn’t hurt. It’s so nice not having to keep her eyes open when the light hurts. 

“You’re not letting anyone down, you know that right?” 

“What?”

“Everyone gets sick, your generals, your troops, even the empire. Bet even Emperor Palpatine has a sick day sometimes,” he says. Han’s voice is almost as soothing as the heat of his palm on her forehead. “I bet your mom did, too.”

She stiffens, because she can’t talk about that, not with him, not now. “Don’t.”

“I’ve heard the way the others from Alderaan talk about her, hell, they don’t even have to be from Alderaan, and I know that’s hard, because she’s not some legendary leader, she’s your mother.”

Dragging her head out of his hands, she sets her jaw and stares at him. “Do you have a point to all this?”

Reaching for her again, he stops when she pulls back. Glaring at him isn’t scaring him off, but she still stares as if she could burn through him. 

“Didn’t she ask for help when she needed it? Didn’t your father--”

She gulps the rest of her drink so fast that she nearly chokes on it, and it stings the back of her nose. Leia starts to speak, but doesn’t trust herself. Can’t. 

“Let me help.” Han lifts his hands up again and she nods, then her throat tickles, constricts and her chest follows. Coughing makes her more vulnerable, weaker, but he rubs her back and waits it out. “See, that? That’s a perfectly healthy set of lungs, I can tell.” 

She leans forward a little more, then her head’s on his shoulder and she shuts her eyes because this is so nice, so warm. 

“You definitely have a fever,” he murmurs into the top of her head. “And it’s okay. Medical’s got at least twelve cases of this already. They’re sick a couple days, then they’re back at work, and knowing you, you’ll be so stubborn that you’ll only be sick a day, two tops.” 

“I don't know if it works that way,” she replies, half buried in his chest. Han lets her stay there, resting against him with his hand on her neck. He doesn't even have to move his fingers, something about the heat of him is comfortable enough. 

“Sure it does.”

There’s more citrus than whiskey in the next hot toddy he sets in front of her. When he sits beside her, she slides back in next to him because he’s warm and solid. Some part of her, that she will not name, just wants to be held. 

The whiskey helps numb the back of her throat and several minutes pass without her coughing. She could just sleep there. She’s been in his bunk once, twice, already. What does it matter if she--

“We need to get you checked out,” he says, breaking the dreamy silence. He’s far too sensible. She can go to medical in the morning if he’d just let her sleep here. 

“It’ll be quick,” Han promises, “just let them check your temperature, give you some anti-virals. Then you go to bed and wait it out.” 

Protesting will just make her headache worse, so she gives in and lets him lead her through the corridors to medical. It’s late enough that activity is at a minimum and maybe no one sees her with his arm around her. Maybe she doesn’t care. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s friendly, supportive, and has nothing to do with the way her knees ache and her legs are wooden. 

All the medical cots are full when they arrive. She hasn’t heard this much coughing since the coolant leak during their last evacuation. Han’s right, and he sits her down on a bench and gets the attention of a medical droid. Leia rests her head in her hands, trying to tune out the troops around her. 

When did this get so bad? Wasn’t she paying attention? Do they have enough people on patrol? 

“Leia?” Han says, drawing her attention. “EB-21 just needs a few minutes, then you can go to bed.”

She’s not sure when she admitted how much she wants that, or if she even mentioned it. It doesn’t matter. She’ll sleep and this will be over. She’ll be fine in the morning. That’s how it usually works. 

He sits next to her. She should thank him and send him away, but she doesn’t. Leia leans against him, letting him make sitting up straight easier. EB-21 places a probe against her forehead, and she shuts her eyes. They sting more with the harsh medical lighting. The cold metal brushes against her forehead and she winces. She didn’t mean to move closer to Han, but the droid’s so close. 

Too close, because the hum carries over the noise around them. It’s sharp, drilling into her head. She startles, and it’s not anything here. It’s not dangerous. She’s not in danger, but her heart’s racing. Her chest’s too tight. 

_Dantooine. They’re on Dantooine._

“Hey, you okay?” Han asks. The droid moves closer, extending another probe, this one with a needle. She pulls back so quickly that she’s almost in his lap. 

“It’s all right,” he continues, keeping his voice soft. “You’re safe. It’s just a shot of anti-virals, helps you fight it off faster. It’ll be over in a moment.” 

“It will not be painful,” EB-21 assures her. 

Does she even hear it? Her mind keeps dragging her somewhere else, somewhere black where the door sealed her in. The probe’s too close, and all she can hear is that horrible throbbing hum. 

Han puts an arm around her, pulling her close. “You don’t have to have it, but you will get better faster.” 

“Heartrate has increased two thirty percent, respiration is constricted, blood oxygenation compromised.” 

“You’re freaking out the droid.” 

Something sharp stabs her shoulder, sinking into her flesh. Han starts arguing with the droid, because it moved too fast, didn’t give her time to relax. She can’t sit, can’t hold still, she has to be away from here, out of this room. 

The droid reaches for her, trying to hold her still. She retreats, escapes, and she’s a meter away, near the door, before even Han catches up to her. He touches her back and she shrinks from him, from being touched. That respirator rasps in her ears and he grabs her. She pushes back, because Leia won’t let him hold her. She won’t let him do this. She won’t--

“Leia.”

_They’re on Dantooine._

“Leia?”

Han grabs her, and he’s warm and soft, not hard like Darth Vader’s armor. He gives when she shoves her shoulder into him. He winces. He’s _real_. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“About what?” Her voice echoes in the icy corridor, flat and cold. 

“What happened to you. Death Star, right? Darth Vader had you what, a couple days?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters. 

“I know.”

She needs to tell him that she’s fine, that his worry is unnecessary, but her chest won’t cooperate. Coughing takes her and her lungs ache, then burn before they spasm, trying to force themselves out of her mouth. She retreats towards the wall, but it’s cold. 

He’s warm. He offers his arms, maybe he doesn’t mean it, but then he holds her. Han keeps her stable while her lungs start their own rebellion. Her ribs are duracrete, then they’re not. Han rubs slow circles on her back, standing silent and still until she stops coughing enough to be able to hear him speak. 

“Fevers make you see things, that’s all it is.” 

It’s not, but she appreciates the lie. 

“You need to sleep,” he says, his voice softening even more. “Your quarters or mine, princess?” 

She should hit him; it’s a terrible thing to joke about, but she’s so tired. Does she want him in her room? Her quarters are impersonal, bare, and cold. The Falcon’s a bucket of bolts but--

“Yours.” 

“It’s warmer anyway,” he says. His fingers stroke the back of her neck and it would be too intimate except that her head throbs and somehow it’s better with his fingers against her spine. 

Han walks her back to the _Falcon_ and she’s even less aware of the corridors on the way back. His arm sits firmly across her shoulders and it’s comforting in a way she can’t acknowledge. He sits her down on the bunk and kneels down to take off her boots. The straps click and give way and he tugs them off. 

He rubs her toes then smirks up at her. “Your feet are warm, so that fever must be pretty high.” Han stands, leaning down to meet her eyes. He touches her cheek, and again, it’s intimate, caring, but they’re not- he’s not-- “I’ll ask Threepio to bring you some clothes, but for now here’s some of mine. They’ll be too big, but comfortable.”

The shirt he hands her is well-worn, but soft. She moves slowly, her hands don’t want to cooperate with her snowsuit. She won’t ask, but she doesn’t have to. He helps her with the outer layers and turns, putting his back to her while she struggles with the last of her clothing. 

“I’m going to get you something to drink,” he says, keeping his back to her. “I’ll be right back.” His blankets have a vaguely familiar scent, not just of him, but the old-leather-and-metal scent of the _Falcon_ itself. She slept here, after they left the Death Star. 

_Dantooine._

Leia curls into a ball beneath the blankets, pulling her knees up to her chest. She repeated that to herself until it was the truth. Her deepest secret was the base on Dantooine that no longer existed. Her memories tug her back, but she wills herself to focus. She’s on the _Falcon_ , not the Death Star. The feet on the deck are Han’s, and he’d never hurt her. 

She doesn’t remember shutting her eyes until she has to open them to look at him. She half-expects it to be Vader staring down at her, but it’s not. Vader’s black mask has never looked concerned. 

“Hey,” Han whispers. “I brought you another blanket. This one’s a favorite of Chewie’s, terantatek fur, very warm.” That must be the animal smell, rich and smokey. 

“You told him?”

“He can smell sickness, been ranting about it all week. Swore he could smell dust fever on some of the pilots. I tried to tell him that a miserable ball of ice like this wasn't going to have any dust like Tatooine to carry it, but he never listens. Seems he’s right,” Han says, sitting on the floor beside the bunk. He sighs. “Won’t let me hear the end of it.” 

Han barely seems real, and part of her thinks he might be a fever dream, but she didn’t know him on the Death Star. If she’s there, she can’t imagine him. She’s on the _Falcon_ , covered in fur that smells like woodsmoke. The walls are slightly rusted, not pristine blackness. She’s safe. 

“What’s dust fever?” 

He smiles a little when she speaks. Why does that make him happy? She’s not that ill. “Nasty little virus that floats around Tatooine,” he explains. “Makes you see all sorts of things you really don’t want to. Vivid nightmares, real bad stuff. Most of the soldiers were seeing things too,” he says, making sure to hold her gaze. “Don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t.” The lie’s weak, but it takes all of her strength to keep the Death Star out of her head. Vader’s there, in the shadows, waiting for her to slip up. 

He rubs her shoulder. “Good. Most of them only have a few near death experiences in the cockpit to remember. Nothing like what you’ve been through.”

“Haven’t-” she protests, but her chest revolts, and she can’t finish. 

His hazel eyes remain in front of hers, locked with her gaze. He smiles again, and it’s too gentle. 

“Sleep.” 

She shakes her head and he chuckles. He shakes a little bottle in his hands, mixing something. 

“Here, drink this and your headache won’t be so bad when you wake up.” He helps her sit up, supporting her shoulders. The sharp, metallic scent of nyex assaults her before she drinks. It’s awful, too bitter, and she chokes it down.

He wipes his hand against his leg and guides her back down. “There you go.”

“Why did you make me drink it?”

“I thought it was better than another injection.” He strokes her forehead. “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

She means to ask if he intends to sleep on the floor, but she drifts before she can find the words. 

* * *

That hideous humming reverberates in her cell, meshing with Darth Vader’s breathing. The noise surrounds her, creeping into her skull along with Vader. He can read her thoughts. 

_Dantooine, they’re on Dantooine._

She pictures the spiky biba trees and rolling plains that surrounded the old base. Leia fills her head with Dantooine. It will be real. It has to be. No matter what Vader does to her, this will be all he sees.

Vader and the droid hold her down, pin her to the shelf. It’s cold and hard; she can’t move, can’t break free. The Empire’s truth serum runs like fire through her blood. 

_Dantooine_. 

If she doesn’t fight it, the pain will end. If she lets Vader in, it’ll be over. She won’t have to suffer. She clings to the pain, wraps herself in it, because that’s how she will beat him. 

She beat him and he destroyed Alderaan.

Or was that the dream? 

Everything against her is cold and hard. Her blood scorches her veins, burning her from the inside out. Burn. Freeze. Surrender and it will all be over. 

“Shhh.”

Vader’s presence overshadows her mind, cutting through her defences. He’ll find his way in. 

“You’re safe.”

She’s cold, but covered in sweat. The blanket- she had no blanket on the Death Star. 

“Leia.” 

Vader never uses her name. He calls her Senator. 

“Leia!”

She’s not restrained. Arms hold her, not a droid. Someone has her, and he strokes her head. He’s gentle, not Vader, because Vader was never gentle. 

This is kind, even protective. 

Not Vader. He’s not here. She’s not on the Death Star. Leia clings to sensations: the softness of the bunk, the smell of the blankets, and Han. He’s holding her, his arms wrapped around her because she must have been thrashing in her sleep. The Death Star’s always with her, but she’s never been there so vividly. 

“Dantooine,” she mutters. 

“You’re not there,” he reminds her, “or anywhere else unpleasant.” His fingers glide over her hair. Han was right, her head doesn’t hurt like it did, and even her ribs are better. 

“Did I?”

“Fought like a gundark,” he teases. He’s in the bunk with her, his body solid and reassuring against her. 

Leia wakes often enough with her blankets twisted on the floor. She knew her dreams were violent, but the fever must have made them worse. 

“I thought you might hurt yourself.”

She smiles into the darkness, then shakes her head. “No, I was afraid, wasn’t I?” His voice was as soft as she’s heard it. Han wouldn’t be so worried that he had his arms around her if it was just her flailing in his bunk. 

“Between that and the coughing, you had me worried, princess.”

He rolls onto his back, giving her space, if she wants it. Leia follows him, and somehow her head on his chest seems so natural. His hand plays with her hair, and it soothes her. Han doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it. 

“I saw Vader, felt him, like he was here.” Leia shuts her eyes. Instead of throbbing, her head swims in fog. That would be the nyex. It’s lucky she got that down. 

“Dust fever, sweetheart, or this hellhole’s version of it.” He continues the slow motion of his hand across her head. “Keep telling yourself it’s not real, and you’ll be better in a few days. Just have to wait it out.” 

His heartbeat thrums in her ear. 

“Will you stay?”

She coughs, chest burning, and the spasm gains strength. His reply is lost, because this time it’s so bad he has to help her sit up, just to clear her lungs. Leia snuggles into him, letting the warmth of him sink into her fevered skin. She’s warmer, of course, but she needs this. Maybe she needs him, and that’s almost more dangerous than her memories of Vader. 

* * *

“What was on Dantooine?” he asks while she chokes on the bitter, metal taste of nyex. Han forces it on her at regular intervals, no doubt keeping her headache to a tolerable minimum. She’s forgotten that she should take it every time, but he must be watching the chrono, because he always remembers. 

_They are._ Her mind insists, still trying to protect her. 

“What?” 

“Here,” he passes her a towel. Licking nyex off her lips is a level of hell he’s not going to put her through. “When you’re out of it, you talk about Dantooine. Something happen there?”

“No, not there.” A tiny, frightened part of her mind screams that this is a trick. Vader’s pretending. He’s being kind to her to make her break. Leia starts to sit up but her muscles won’t cooperate. Her body’s too heavy. He helps her, sitting on the bed next to her until she’s balanced on the pillows and the bulkhead. He could creep off the bunk, but he stays. 

“We had a base there, years before Yavin.”

“And the Empire found it?” 

She smiles, even her lips are tired and hard to move. “Never did. We were gone.”

“So,” he pauses, trying to fill in the gaps for her so she doesn’t have to keep talking. “It was a decoy. You had a back up so he’d think he broke you. Smart.” 

“I had to have something.” She wants to keep talking, but her lungs won’t allow it. Her ribs sting through the nyex haze and it takes minutes before her breath is steady enough for speech. 

He mutters nothings, calming her with tiny parts of words. 

“He didn’t break me,” she says when she can. “I didn’t mention Dantooine until we were in orbit of Alderaan, when it was too late.”

“Not your fault.” 

She nods, and he squeezes her shoulder. 

“I know you don’t believe it. I probably wouldn’t, if it was my planet. If I had a planet.” 

She shuts her eyes and leans against his shoulder. “You could stay, with us, the Rebellion’s full of people with nowhere else to go.”

She’s half-asleep, and maybe she dreams his answer. He rests his chin on her head, just for moment. “I wish I could, princess.” 

* * *

“Can’t braid it as nice as you had it,” he says, teasing the last of the tangles out of her hair. It’s full of dried sweat and oil, but she’s not getting up to shower today. Sitting up is still a struggle. 

“But, I can make it a little better.” Finished with the knots, he braids all of her hair into one and ties it off. She curls onto her side and he touches her forehead. “You’re not so hot now. Almost normal.” 

She blinks at him, bringing his smile into focus. His face has been the center of her vision for over a day, and the circles under his eyes are dark. She hasn’t let him sleep much. 

“Threepio could look after me, you know.” 

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “But where’s the fun in that? Beside, goldenrod is a big worrywart and he’d drag you back to medical the first time your fever went back up.”

“Thank you.” 

“I’m not a big fan of medical either, funny smells, pushy droids.” He strokes her forehead then smiles at her. “You want to try and eat something? Chewie made some soup, and he’s good at it, puts the right spices in.” 

“Did I eat yesterday?” She should remember, but nyex makes her memories fuzzy. 

“Porridge, and I got you to drink some broth. You’re not a bad patient.” He touches her forehead again, and she’s gotten too accustomed to his touch. She’ll miss it. 

“Except for all the rambling.” 

“Very contained rambling,” he assures her. “Dantooine, the Death Star, Vader. Seems you don’t have any other dirty secrets.” Han smiles at her again and stands. “I’ll get you some soup, try and stay awake until I get back.” 

She drifts, but it’s easy enough to pull herself back to consciousness when she hears his boots on the deck. They’re not Vader’s. His step is too light to be that monster, and she takes comfort in that. 

Maybe the comfort’s also from Han being himself, not just that he’s not Vader. He’s been so willing to look after her, and she never would have guessed that. 

“You’re still awake.”

“Not easy,” she teases. Coughing’s just as bad as it was, but she can sit up a little on her own, because the fever’s not draining all of her energy. 

He hands her a flask, not a bowl and a spoon. “You should be able to drink it. Told Chewie it was for you and he fixed it.” 

“You mean he pulverized it.” 

“It’s soup, not metal,” he teases. Han’s eyes twinkle. She hates how much she likes that. “It’s good though, isn’t it?”

Chewie’s soup is hot, savoury and filling. Everything still tastes a little like nyex, but it’s good enough to cut through that terrible bitterness. She swallows the first mouthful and it creeps into her chest, warm and filling. 

Han sits against the wall, toying with his spoon as he eats his own helping of stew. He gets bread too, but Leia can’t imagine how hard that would be to swallow, considering the tenderness of her throat. “So, you going to tell me about the Death Star?” 

“What?”

“When I had dust fever, all I talked about were the pirates, smugglers, and the awful things I’ve seen. Chewie had to hold me down a couple of times. It’s easy for him.”

She struggles to swallow, because her throat’s too tight. “That happened to you?”

“Yeah.” His spoon scrapes the bottom of his soup bowl. “I’ve had all kinds of stuff Chewie’s had to fix. Been shot, stabbed, burnt, and when you’re always travelling, you catch stuff. Virus here, nasty little parasite there. Picked up a intherial worm that would have used my eyeball as a nest for its eggs if Chewie hadn’t’ve got it out of my neck.” 

Leia sets the flask down, because her chest’s too tight, but to her surprise, she doesn’t cough. It’s something else. “But you had Chewie.” 

“Best friend you can ask for, just have to get used to getting the hair off your clothes, all the time.” He sets down his bowl and moves closer to the bunk. He sits on the deck, knees up with his hands around them. “Who’s that for you, princess?”

“Chewie sheds enough for most of the base.” 

He chuckles and nods. “That’s true, but that’s not what I meant.”

“I have-”

“A Rebellion, generals, commanders, the troops you protect, and a very trying protocol droid,” he pauses, studying her face. She can’t sense a motive. He just cares. Han Solo, the smuggler who only cared about getting paid, cares what happens to her. 

That terrifies her, and ice settles in her stomach. 

“You had friends on Alderaan, didn’t you? People you talked to. Your parents.” 

She nods, willing her eyes to stay dry. “They’re gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Leia lets the silence build, because maybe he’ll stop. Maybe she’s said enough.

“Did you tell anyone about the Death Star?”

“I was debriefed, made a full report, cleared by medical.” She should look away, because he’s going to see too much, but Leia can’t turn from his eyes. There’s something about him that gets through her defenses. 

She wants him to. 

“That’s not telling someone, sweetheart, that’s duty. Some poisons you have to get out before they get better.” Han watches her, toying with his spoon in what passes for patience. “What did Vader do?”

She gulps more of the soup, because she needs her strength back before she can let him go. “What he does.” 

“Torture?”

Leia nods, giving up on her soup and sliding back into the bunk. 

“Droid?”

She nods again, forcing her brain to concentrate on the quiet of the _Falcon_ , not the hum of the droid before it hurt her. “Truth serum, the chair.”

“That’s a lot.”

“I know.” 

“Anyone would be a mess after that, and you got us off the Death Star.”

She shifts in the bunk, tucking a pillow beneath her head. “Not my fault your rescue needed a rescue.” 

Han smirks. He turns the spoon over in his hands, watching her. “That’s not all of it, is it?” 

Leia shuts her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep, to have another damn coughing fit, anything that prevents her having to speak. “Vader.”

He puts down his spoon, and reaches out, his hand strokes her shoulder. “I’ve heard stories.” 

She can’t take his hand. It’s too intimate, but his fingers are there, centimeters from hers. She touches his wrist, and he’s the one who makes contact, wrapping her fingers in his. “He’s worse. He’s huge, dark, all dressed in black, when he walks into a room it’s colder, just because he’s there. He pushes into your mind, batters his way in, and then he’s in your thoughts, your memories.” She shudders. Sometimes Leia can still feel him thrashing in the corners of her mind, searching for the secrets she stole.

“You kept him out.” Han’s thumb makes slow circles on the back of her hand. “Most people can’t do that.”

“I don’t know how.” Now she coughs, fighting for breath. Maybe she shouldn’t have laid back down, let her lungs fill, but he’s here, he helps her sit up. Han helps her fight back the memories that return with her helplessness. 

Vader held her down and battered her mind, tearing her defenses to shreds. 

Han holds her to him and shares. He whispers about the terrible things he saw with the pirates, the Hutts, all the darkness he ran from in the universe until he met Chewie and knew he had to stop. 

“At first, it was just keeping Chewie and me alive, fed, getting enough soap to keep him clean.” He rocks her against his chest. “Tall order, actually. Wookiee’s need a lot. You don’t need a purpose, you’ve got an abundance of that, princess.” Han pulls back and looks at her. No one looks at her like that. “You might need a friend or two. Luke’s a good kid, Wedge, Shara, your Rebellion is full of good people. They’d listen to you if you let them in.” 

He doesn’t mention himself, because he’s leaving. This is their moment. He’s held her for the past two nights because he wants to see her through this. Han can’t stay. She can’t trust him, because he’s going to leave and she’ll be alone. 

“But they haven’t seen what I have,” she whispers. 

“Doesn’t mean they can’t listen, sweetheart. Think about it.” He strokes her hair, again, and the warmth of his hands has become far too familiar. Han stays with her in the bunk while she finishes her soup. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and she whispers about Vader, and what he did, what he saw. He doesn’t comment on the tears sinking into his shirt, doesn’t call any attention to her vulnerability, lets her have the moment of weakness. 

She falls asleep on his chest and mercifully, doesn’t dream.

* * *

Luke watches her laughter turn to coughing and winces. “Ouch.”

Leia waves off his concern, waiting for her lungs to be hers again. “It’s not as bad as it was.”

“You sound like a dying bantha.”

She hits him and he winces just enough to make her smile. “Thanks.”

“You and half the base,” he mutters. “Thought I’d never be glad to be on the long patrol where nothing happens, but no one from Red Squadron caught the snow fever. Half of Yellow squadron got it, and several from Blue are still in their bunks, hacking their lungs out like you are.” 

“I told you, this is better. It hurt before, this is just frustrating.” She leans back against the wall in the cafeteria. Her appetite has returned slowly, but Han was right about forcing herself to eat. It helps. 

“And frustrating is better?” 

She shakes her head. “Much better than painful.”

“Rough couple of days then?” Luke sips his drink and then reaches for her leftover bread. “Wedge said the fever’s the worst part. Medical was full of people babbling away, getting lost in their worst memories.” 

She nods, swallowing. Taking a drink helps her focus, and she stares at the table. “I saw Vader, and the Death Star. I thought I’d moved past that. It was years ago, and we escaped.” 

He puts an arm around her shoulders. The gesture comes so naturally that she wonders why he hasn’t done it before. “You never talk about it.” 

“Didn’t think I had anything to say,” she says, sighing. Leia fidgets with her cup, searching for words. 

In the quiet, Luke nudges her, smiling. “Want to hear something funny?” 

“What?”

“Han fell asleep in our briefing. Kes kicked him under the table, but General Rieekan still noticed. It was fine, everyone understood. The fever’s worn everyone out, even those who weren’t sick, but I thought he’d got it too. He looks like hell.” Luke continues to talk, remarking on everyone he saw recovering from the fever. 

Across the cafeteria, Han rubs his eyes in the food line. He’s busy, talking to Kes and Shara, and Luke’s right, he looks like hell. She can’t wave, but she watches him until his eyes meet hers. She smiles and Leia can’t even say why looking at him makes her so happy. 

Han smiles, and it’s too soft. He worried about her so much that he barely slept for two days. He winks back at her and she doesn’t blush. 

Somehow. 

He still can’t stay and she’ll have to watch him go. 

Not yet. Not tomorrow, so she allows herself to smile back. 

“It was like Vader was in my head,” she says, turning to Luke. She can do this. He’s Luke, he’s trustworthy. “Moving all my thoughts around, trying to find what he wanted.” 

“He’s evil,” Luke agrees, and the arm around her shoulders tightens. “Ben said he was one of the darkest, but we’ll beat him. We’ll defeat the Empire.” He looks at her, studying her face. “I’m sorry you had to remember that.” 

“Me too.” 


End file.
